He ran through light into the dark,
Breathed the scent of goldenrod
In a roar of bees with golden thighs.
The sun went down, red through the pines,
Crickets sang among the stems
Where night marshaled its forces,
The moon appeared thin as a blade,
And the night had a thousand voices.
He ran until his legs went numb
And knew he'd never know the like
'Til time and times were done:
The silver skewers of the moon,
The golden skewers of the sun.
—with a bow to a suffering Yeats.
